


The Working Benefits of Partnership

by Makioka



Category: Yami No Matsuei
Genre: Gen, Humor, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-01
Updated: 2012-08-01
Packaged: 2017-11-11 04:16:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makioka/pseuds/Makioka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watari has made an art out of driving partners away, but Tatsumi's dictum that he was to stick with just one leads to unexpected consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Working Benefits of Partnership

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stillskies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillskies/gifts).



> This is ridiculously silly and I apologise but hope you enjoy.

“Change partners? I don’t think you quite understand Watari,” Tatsumi said quietly, edging around the desk. There were sharks who envied him his air of quiet menace. Watari gulped and edged around also, making sure always to keep some solid wood between him and the angry accountant. 

“Understand what Tatsumi?” he said, and was impressed with how even his voice was. It wasn’t often he managed such composure in the face of such rage. He also sped up his movements slightly. It paid to keep himself always one step ahead.

“Money matters to be frank. Do you know what you cost this department in new partners? Do you know how much it costs to pay the transfer fees, the hardship fees, the danger-allowance, the keep-quiet-about-this-or-else-bribes, and that on that one notable occasion the ‘sorry-I-nearly-killed-an- _immortal_ ’ apology payment.”

“Maths has never been my strongest point. Could you ask me something easier? A chemistry question perhaps.” Watari’s flippant reply was accompanied by the uneasy sensation that those shadows weren’t moving exactly the way they should.

“How about another maths question? How many minutes of my precious time have I spent soothing gibbering wrecks who’ve crawled out of your laboratory crying, if you add to that the number of hours I’ve spent convincing potential partners that your reputation is unfair, unwarranted and entirely without the basis of truth, and that in fact you are a reasonable facsimile of a human being who is entirely capable of running a lab without accidents?”

“A lot?” hazarded Watari. When he remembered that Tatsumi liked statistics and actual whole numbers, he screwed up his face to calculate. “Fifteen hours and fourteen minutes?”

“Actually,” came the ominous reply, “forty six hours and twenty one minutes at a conservative estimate.” He came to a complete halt (luckily for Watari who had been getting dizzier by the second,) and planted his hands on the table. “No more. I don’t have the money or the time to get you a new partner. You will keep this one and you will _like it_. End of discussion.”

Watari slunk off, lab coat belt between his legs, but not quite as disheartened as he looked. It hadn’t been an unequivocal no, he told himself cheerfully. Tatsumi always gave in sooner or later, whether it was because of the bizarre power Tsuzuki held over him (and Watari honestly didn’t like to think how far Tsuzuki would go for a Cinnabon,) the rather penetrating odour of desperation that emanated from the lab after a partner had spent more than forty eight hours in his proximity or the deep and special understanding he liked to think he and Tatsumi shared on occasion, which may not have manifested so far but would undoubtedly do so one day.

In fact it was with a smile on his face and a song on his lips that he returned to the lab to get to know his very favourite assistant a little bit better. It’d only been six hours after all. The girl had arrived all brushed and polished, clean and excited at nine o’clock sharp, and bowed with deep respect. Her first words hadn’t been promising. He remembered the excited exclamation well. “I read your paper on the chemical composition of Shinigami blood and its implications for warded power transfers, and if I can say so it was amazing. I’m so honoured to work with you!” Disgustingly enthusiastic, knowledgeable and likely to want to do serious work.

Now it was three o’ clock in the afternoon and he looked forward to seeing his progress. Initial signs were full of promise. The neat bun of hair was undone, the lab coat was stained and she appeared to be wrestling a green froggy thing back into a jar. The air of neat professionalism had completely vanished, and a deep world weary cynicism had set in instead. “Tut tut,” he scolded, for the sheer joy of saying tut tut. “I did tell you not to let Froggy out of his home.”

She turned a look of deep loathing on him. “You said he wanted an airing and that he liked being stroked with a forefinger. You didn’t mention the acid.” 

“A lamentable oversight and I apologise unreservedly. The swelling should go down within weeks.” He wandered over to the desk and knocked over the pile of books that had just been alphabetized. “I’m so sorry,” he cried. “But it won’t take you a moment to get them in order.”

Alas he’d pushed it too far, the assistant turned like the proverbial worm. Picking up the books she placed them back in their original position. “I really don’t think they need alphabetizing anymore,” she said, with her own air of quiet menace. Watari realised with dread that though initial results had been promising that this wasn’t going to be as easy as he had hoped. There was a light of battle in her eyes, a grim endurance that lent rigidity to her spine and iron to her soul. He had hoped that Froggy would do the trick but it looked like this one was tougher than that.

With the ease of long practice he switched tactics, and beamed at her- the bright sunny smile that figured so often in the nightmares of past partners. “Of course not! It’s almost home-time anyway, and I shouldn’t be working you so hard on your first day.” He watched with practiced eyes, the dawning and quickly stifled hope. 

“An early night would be appreciated,” she said hopefully.

“And you shall certainly have one. Just pop on down to Tatsumi’s office and let him know that you’re heading home early.” He waved brightly as she left looking suspicious. Tatsumi didn’t realise that sometimes he was almost as good as Watari, at getting rid of Watari’s assistants. And the face of Tatsumi when asked for time off work, or rather not even asked but told, should be a corker.

He heard light footsteps coming back down the corridor, and she came back in. “Thanks! He was really nice about it, said he understood I’d be tired on the first day here, and wanted me all invigorated for work tomorrow. He asked if you’d drop by as well.” She picked up her bag and slung it over her shoulder. “Have a good afternoon.”

When he made his way to Tatsumi’s office, the atmosphere was almost calm. No shadows, no threats, just what threatened to be the slightest touch of a smile on Tatsumi’s handsome mouth. “How kind of you to volunteer to take up your partner’s extra hours,” he said without pre-amble. “A very handsome tribute. Otherwise I’d have had to cut the budget for the third month in a row, and that would have been a tragedy.”

Watari made himself smile. _Oh clever move_ , he thought admiringly. _Very clever indeed_. “I’m so glad we agree,” he said with as much sincerity as he could muster. 

Tatsumi looked back down at his paperwork. “You know Watari,” he said conversationally. “I’d remember this one’s name if I were you. I have a good feeling about her.”

 

In the next few weeks Tatsumi’s good feeling, and Watari’s bad were more than fulfilled. Nothing worked. The deliberate misinformation campaign as to canteen hours, the superglue in her pockets (childish, but it had worked on partner number seven,) the injection of a pre-transformation vial into her bloodstream and the inevitable scales that appeared. She bulldozed on through every obstacle he could create, breaking records for the amount of time survived as Watari’s partner. First a week, then three weeks, then three months. Tatsumi sometimes looked as though he wanted to shake her gingerly by the hand and congratulate her.

Watari was almost at his wit’s end. It wasn’t that she was dislikable, far from it, despite her uncompromising stance on insisting on remaining with the department, she was generally amiable, hard working (in fact far too hard working,) and gifted at making coffee. But he’d been a single Shinigami since forever, and that was the way he liked it regardless of how few changes she actually entailed.

After a time he grew to accept that this wasn’t a case of irresistible force meets immovable object, but more a case of irresistible force meets object that puts up a fight then yields. And despite himself it was rather nice having a partner who could understand what he talked about, and who occasionally prevented unnecessary and expensive explosions. From force of habit he still refused to remember her name, but luckily that didn’t come up much. 

In fact if the situation had stayed the same, he’d have rather liked it. Unfortunately for the fate of their joint paper on the effects of superglue and pre-transformation tincture when combined in the same body it was not to be. He’d known there was something up, when he’d come into work and seen Tatsumi sitting on a desk in his lab with a slightly stunned expression, and a pink transfer slip in his hand. 

They looked at each other silently, until Tatsumi broke the silence. “They transferred her,” he said, and there was bemusement in his voice. “Paid the costs themselves, promoted her up. Said if she could survive you she could survive Floor Nine. Sent their best wishes to you as well, and a small gratuity to cover odds and ends. She’s getting her things.”

Her head came round the door. “I just came to say goodbye,” she said cheerfully. “Onwards and upwards to Floor Nine. Oh and Watari? My name’s Sakamoto Miyoshi. Don’t forget it.”

In the quiet that followed her departure Watari found his voice. “No more,” he said firmly. “No more partners. Not now, not ever.”

Tatsumi looked down at his strangely paperwork free hands. “No more partners,” he agreed. “More trouble than they’re worth.”


End file.
